Inside Voice
by cheride
Summary: Speak softly . . . and listen well.


_This is a work of fanfiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle and McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

**A/N:** Sometimes you run into one of those long, dark nights where there's not really much to do but think. And sometimes those thoughts are still around in the light of day and must be dealt with.

Thanks to LML and Owl for encouragement in both the darkness and the light.

* * *

**Inside Voice**

Cheride

The boy carefully considered the vehicle in front of him. A unique combination of Tinker Toys, Play Doh, and construction paper, he wanted to be sure it was just right. After a moment's study, he adjusted the length of the axle and added another wheel to each side. Then, with his fingers crossed, he shoved it across the linoleum toward the waiting cookie sheet ramp.

"Whoo-hoo!" he shrieked as the car sailed up and out, then landed upright and kept rolling out of the kitchen and into the hallway. "It worked!" He was clapping his hands and jumping in circles when a woman appeared in the doorway, holding his creation.

"Did you lose something?" Donna McCormick asked with a smile.

"It worked!" he repeated joyfully. He'd stopped bouncing to look at his mother proudly, but he added another clap for good measure. "Wanna see?"

She was still smiling, but she held a finger to her lips. "Shh, Mark. You know what I've told you; your daddy works late at night and he needs to rest."

Mark's face fell. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Donna gave him a quick hug. "That's okay. Just remember to use your inside voice, okay?" She handed him back the car.

The smile lit the boy's face again . "Okay," Mark agreed in a loud whisper as he dropped back to his knees and sent the car racing across the floor.

00000

Mark watched through half-closed eyes as the night nurse did all those things she always did before the daytime person took over. He didn't move, not wanting her to know he was awake, because they all seemed so sad when they looked at him, and he was sad enough on his own without them making him want to cry. He'd cried enough already, even though he kept telling himself that fourteen year olds didn't cry. But he thought most fourteen year olds didn't watch their mothers die, either.

And she was dying; there was no way around it. First she'd just been tired, and then she'd actually been sick, but for the last two weeks she'd been here in this hospital ward, growing weaker every day. He hated that she couldn't even be in her own bedroom with the blue flower wallpaper she loved so much. He'd brought the matching quilt to put on her bed here, but he wasn't sure she really knew.

He opened his eyes as the nurse turned away to check on the other patients, and went back to watching his mother sleep. He thought this was probably the last morning he'd get to be with her. Last night, when the nurse had told him he didn't have to leave, he'd figured it out. When families got to stay past visiting hours, that was always the last night. He didn't know how the nurses knew, but they knew.

He leaned forward and put his head down on the bed, his hand resting on his mother's arm. "I don't want you to go, Mom," he whispered hoarsely, blinking his eyes, reminding himself that he was fourteen years old. "I don't want to be alone."

He wasn't expecting to feel the hand that covered his. He'd gotten used to coolness of her touch, and the way her skin wasn't as smooth and soft as it used to be, but she hadn't reached out to him for the last three days. He scrubbed his face quickly against the sheet, then raised his head. "Mom?"

She gave him a weak smile, but her eyes were filled with a far away sadness. That scared him more than anything. "Mom?" he repeated, a little frantically.

"I'm not—" the raspy voice stopped, and she ran her tongue slowly around her lips. Then she started again. "I'm . . . not really . . . leaving," she said, seeming to consider each word carefully. "I'll always be with you." She shifted her head slightly, eyes not quite tracking on his face. "Whenever you want to talk to me . . . whenever you need help . . . I'll be there. All you have to do is listen, and you'll hear me. I'll be a voice inside you . . . forever."

"I'll listen," he promised, no longer able to stop the tears.

He held her hand and heard her words ringing in his ears until the nurses came and led him from the ward.

00000

McCormick backed slowly down the corridor, eyes darting frantically, hoping to find a reprieve. When his back hit the wall and there was no place left to turn, he realized no reprieve was coming. "Look," he said, holding a placating hand toward the two approaching men, "you don't need to do this. We can work this out." But the other men kept moving forward.

"We're gonna work it out, all right," the first one said as he closed the final step between them, driving a fist into McCormick's gut. "And it'll only hurt for a while."

And though he tried to fight back, it was only a matter of minutes before he was overpowered and the first guy spun him around to face the wall while the second one said, "I'll go first this time."

He bit down on his lip, determined not to give them the satisfaction of crying out, but when he felt the man move in closer, and the hot breath on the back of his neck, he couldn't stop the single, whispered word. "_Please_."

He heard their laughter, and one of them said, "Hey, he's asking for it already."

But the next thing he heard was a stronger voice, from farther away. "Get the hell away from him."

The hands holding him didn't loosen their grip, but he felt one of them turn toward the other voice, and he heard the man growl, "This is none of your business, Denton."

"I'm making it my business, Moke, and you know what that means."

Long seconds passed, and McCormick wondered what sort of unspoken communication was taking place behind him. From what he'd seen of Buddy Denton, he was a good enough guy, but he hadn't seemed like someone who could hope to stop what was happening now. He supposed he'd have to thank him for trying, though—if they both lived through it.

Then, without another word, the men released him, pausing only long enough to give his face a rough shove into the concrete wall. But if a bloody nose was the worst he had to show for this meeting, he'd be grateful. When he heard the footsteps moving away, he turned slowly, still leaning against the wall, hoping the support would hide the sudden tremors he could feel working their way through his body. He raised his eyes to his cellmate.

"Buddy, man, I don't know how to thank—"

"_No_." The single, grumbled syllable stopped McCormick's gratitude cold.

There was a moment of silence, then Denton continued, "You don't thank a guy, don't put yourself in his debt, when you don't know what he's gonna want in return. That's the rule."

McCormick's eyes widened. Maybe it had been too early to be relieved. He tried to ask. "But—"

"No buts," Denton interrupted him again. "Because the first rule is you need to follow my rules."

With the terror of the last few minutes fading fast, McCormick was getting some of his confidence back. "And what makes your rules any better than their rules?" he asked, gesturing roughly down the hall. "Maybe I want to follow my _own_ rules."

Denton grinned slightly. "That's a pretty fair question, kid, but you shoulda quit while you were ahead. Because the next rule is that you don't get to make rules yet." He held up a hand to ward off the objection. "Uh-uh; that one's not negotiable. You're a fish, man; you don't know enough to make rules. You listen to me, maybe you'll stay alive long enough to teach someone else."

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," McCormick blustered. "I ain't no fish. I been around."

"Well, bully for you," Buddy told him. "The plan now is to figure out how to _keep_ you around. I mean, come on, man; I heard you say 'please' to those guys. What were you thinkin'? And how'd you end up on their radar anyway? Don'tcha even know enough to stay out of the way?"

McCormick couldn't argue with that. Truth was, he thought he _had_ known at least that much. Apparently he just needed some help recognizing which people to stay out of the way _of_. He didn't think he'd be telling Buddy any time soon that he was the one who had approached them, thinking they looked like safe enough guys to hitch his wagon to, at least to get through chow time. He gave a noncommittal shrug.

But Denton seemed to have it all figured out anyway. "They always were good at picking out the lost sheep," he said thoughtfully, "and coming across like a good port in a storm." He shook his head. "Bet you thought you'd found a safety net, didn't ya? Hah. Good thing I came along when I did." He looked around suddenly at their surroundings—McCormick still standing alone and vulnerable in the box-end of the deserted hallway—and then he looked meaningfully back at the other man. "And it's a good thing you're not my type."

McCormick swallowed hard as he realized that he'd let his relief over surviving his first bout of bad judgment lull him into a false sense of security. Maybe Denton was right; maybe he _was_ a fish. Still . . .

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do?" he demanded. "I can't thank you for saving me; I can't tell you to get the hell out of my way because I don't get to make rules yet; and I can't stand here talking to you, even though you did just save me. Oh, and just for good measure, when I'm being jumped by a coupla bastards twice my size who're looking to add me to their harem, I also can't ask them to please not hurt me." He stopped his tirade abruptly and thought about that for a half-second, then added, "Though, in retrospect, I guess that last bit makes a helluva lot a sense."

Denton chuckled. "You're gonna find, McCormick, that I almost always make a lotta sense." He jerked a thumb toward the open end of the hallway. "Now let's get the hell out of here and I'll give you a few more lessons."

"What you have to remember," Denton began as they walked, "is that guys aren't the same in here as outside; you gotta treat 'em different. _You_ have to _be_ different. You don't gotta be mean, but you sure as hell can't be _nice_. So the first thing you're gonna have to learn is how to talk to the guys, not to mention how to know when to keep your damn mouth shut. This is Quentin, man. We have to teach you what I like to think of as your inside voice. A specially-made attitude for dealing with assholes behind bars, because not everyone in here is as charming as I am."

Walking alongside the older man, McCormick grinned, thinking that developing an attitude wasn't likely to be much of a stretch.

00000

McCormick looked down at the file folder in his hands, trying not to look at the man standing just outside the cell. He'd already given the guy a pretty good dose of carefully cultivated attitude, which had gotten him precisely nowhere. He might be behind bars again, but apparently this old donkey wasn't even a little bit impressed with his "inside voice" . . . not that he was particularly surprised by that.

Still, that was Martin Cody staring up at him from the file, and he couldn't deny the urge to do anything in his power to wipe the smug look off that snake-like face once and for all. But would he really do _anything_? Stealing a car seemed like a picnic in the park compared to the offer on the table now.

He heard Hardcastle pressing him for an answer as he continued to stare silently. He clutched the folder in his hands and turned away from the older man, still trying to make the decision that would determine the rest of his life.

And that's when he heard it. A whisper in his head that he'd known for years, and had always trusted. For the first time, though, he hesitated. Wasn't this the same whisper that just twenty-four hours ago had instructed him to go back for that cop? And while he couldn't exactly label that a mistake—he had never intended anyone to die—he thought maybe a fairly significant consideration had been left out of the conversation.

Still, he'd long ago concluded that Fate wasn't particularly kind, and neither good intentions nor good deeds were any kind of guarantee of happiness. On the other hand, there was no denying that he'd survived everything that Fate had ever thrown his way, and come through it all mostly intact. He thought maybe those whispered words had something to do with that.

So now, here in this cell, clinging to the Cody file, with a crazy judge waiting for an answer, he did what he had always done, and used his inside voice.


End file.
